Page 9 of The Jester

He tugs me behind it and pushes me up against the cold, slick rocks.

For a moment, I worry about the dress. But as soon as he touches me, the worry fades.

“I can’t take off my mask,” I tell him.

He brushes a firm thumb across my lower lip, then pauses while my tongue circles it. “Neither can I,” he replies, watching me with a feral look in his eyes that makes my belly tingle.

I do not question him. I don’t need to. All I need is whatever is about to happen next.

Dragging his thumb from my lips, down my neck, and between my breasts, he slips his other hand around my body to feel for the laces at the back of my dress.

“Leave it on,” I tell him, meeting his eyes.

He blinks questioningly, but then nods. “As you say, si’thari. But your panties, at least, must come off or I won’t be able to make you come.”

The stranger’s brazenness lights me on fire. I do not want this to be slow or sensual or romantic. I want it to be all the things I have not had for so many years. I want it to be heat, and desire, and sweat, and bodies, and pleasure. Pure, all-consuming pleasure.

Because even though I cannot touch him without a layer of fabric between us, he can touch me.

And by the stars does he touch me.

Tugging my underwear roughly down to my ankles, he makes me step out of them and tosses them aside. Then he slides his hands up the backs of my legs, caressing my calves and the backs of my knees with a feather-light touch that makes me sigh and tilt my hips towards him.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, lifting my dress and inching his fingers higher.

Reaching down, I scrape my fingers through his hair and bring his face closer to the apex of my thighs. I want to feel his tongue, and knowing I can’t because of his mask makes me want it even more.

His fingers pause just short of my core, hovering, waiting to unleash their power. I can feel the heat emanating from his skin, the sweat that clings to his body, the strength it is taking for him not to speed up and devour me.

The smell of the forest, of dirt and damp leaves and earthy moss, mingles with the scent of his skin. The waterfall is loud, so loud it drowns out my thoughts until all I can think about is the way he is not touching me.

Gently, he strokes one finger through my wetness, starting at my clit and ending at my opening. He stops, makes a slow circle and then slides the tip of his finger inside me. As he does, my legs dip and a low moan escapes my lips.

He holds his finger there for torturous seconds, not moving, completely still.

When I brace a hand on his shoulder and ever-so-slightly tilt my pelvis, he tuts and roughly holds me still with his free hand.

I whimper and reach up to scrape my fingers through my hair.

Suddenly, I am desperate to free myself of my clothes. I want to feel the spray of the falls on my naked body. I want him to look up and worship me.

But then a second finger joins the first. After making a small torturous circle just inside my entrance, he growls and plunges them deep inside.

I cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he curls his fingers forward while thrusting with a strength that makes the veins on his arms bulge and his breath hitch in his chest.

While he fucks me with his fingers, his other hand grips my thigh, holding me open for his exploration. A part of me is desperate to pull away, to escape from the intensity of it all, but it’s too late – he is inside me, his fingers splayed wide as he thrusts them in and out in a frenzied rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.

“Touch your clit while I fuck you,” he commands, looking up at me.

“I don’t just want your fingers,” I murmur, grinding down onto his hand.

There’s that smirk again – audible in his voice and tangible in the air. “Soon,” he says. “But I want you to come for me first.”

“Oh, fuck,” I murmur, slipping my hand down to do as he says.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Show me how you like to be touched.” He hesitates, then adds, “You want to keep those gloves on? Does the fabric feel good against your pussy?”

I whimper in response, unable to lie when I’m so completely trapped in the web of my own desire. But unable to tell him the truth either – that if I touch him when I’m losing control like this, I might break him.

---